


Shivers

by momentia



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: ASMR, Aziraphale Has a Penis (Good Omens), Bottom Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley Has A Vulva (Good Omens), M/M, Top Aziraphale (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-11
Updated: 2020-05-11
Packaged: 2021-03-02 18:42:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,625
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24121534
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/momentia/pseuds/momentia
Summary: "Autonomous meridian sensory response," he says softly, trying to match a certain cadence and tone of voice.  He kneels on the bed beside Crowley, hovers his fingertips over the top of his spine, and Crowley squirms, shoulders rising toward the warmth of Aziraphale's touch."Can just call it 'ASMR,'" he mumbles into the pillow.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 10
Kudos: 184
Collections: Break in Case of Emergency: Fluff and Love, Good Omens Kink Meme





	Shivers

**Author's Note:**

> For [this prompt](https://good-omens-kink.dreamwidth.org/3161.html?thread=2056537) on the kink meme: 
> 
> _Crowley is the biggest fan of back scratches and is most delighted when he learns about ASMR. At some point, he builds the courage (he's a demon, he's not supposed to like such things, damn it!) to ask Aziraphale to do a little ASMR on him, and obviously his angel is more than happy to comply. He makes Crowley stretch on their bed on his stomach and starts narrating in low whispers what he's doing. Initially giggling, Crowley then starts to really relax and find it funnily arousing. When he starts moaning, Aziraphale stops talking, just lifts his hips while Crowley holds his pillow, and the rest is history, meaning the slowest and more careful lovemaking ever. I'd like equal attention on the ASMR as the smut, please. Lots of scritches and tingles for a demon that clearly needs them!_

Crowley is facedown in their bed wearing nothing but a pair of simple black panties, and Aziraphale takes a moment to admire the view.

The dark fabric, plain but soft cotton, a gift from Aziraphale, highlights his slim hips, the slight rise of his ass. The color is matte against the shiny patches of scales scattered over his back and shoulders. The scales here are a deep black that shimmers almost red in the late afternoon light, and if Aziraphale turned him over, he'd see that red echoed more clearly in the scales that dot his chest and stomach. But he wants Crowley's beautiful back bared to him for this, so he takes his fill of color from the strands of bright hair falling from the loose bun on Crowley's head.

All of it, the scales and the more humanesque skin, the barely contained cascade of fiery curls, is more precious to Aziraphale than all the rest of Her creation. He would tell Crowley as much -- has, as a matter of fact, and watched Crowley flush almost dark enough to match the scales on his belly -- but he's aware of his own tendency to get distracted, and he has other plans for tonight than indulging their mutually beneficial enjoyment of praise. He has other ways to worship.

"Autonomous meridian sensory response," he says softly, trying to match a certain cadence and tone of voice. He kneels on the bed beside Crowley, hovers his fingertips over the top of his spine, and Crowley squirms, shoulders rising toward the warmth of Aziraphale's touch.

"Can just call it 'ASMR,'" he mumbles into the pillow.

"Hmm," Aziraphale hums. Under other circumstances, he might call out Crowley's impatience, implore or cajole him to wait. But Crowley doesn't need to wait more than another moment or two, just long enough for Aziraphale to settle his bulk across Crowley's hips. He can feel the warmth of that slender body through the thin linen trousers he's taken to wearing since they retired to the shore, and he has to remind himself that this isn't the time. Crowley had insisted, after all, that this wasn't a sexual matter, and Aziraphale refocuses on the task at hand, pushing the sleeves of his cardigan up.

His weight alone seems to have calmed Crowley a bit, and Aziraphale rewards him by tracing a line along his vertebrae, counting them aloud quietly, voice slipping into a proper whisper. Crowley makes a sound, shakes his head. "Counting, angel?" Despite the implied criticism, his shoulders drop and he settles more fully against the sheets.

Aziraphale tsks, then catches himself and repeats the sound, softening it, tongue clicking quietly as he settles his nails against the skin on either side of Crowley's back and drags them slowly down toward his hips. Crowley makes a little murmur of contentment, and Aziraphale smiles to himself; Crowley has always loved having his back scratched, long before he ever mentioned ASMR. Aziraphale remembers suddenly that narration can be an even bigger part of it than nonverbal sounds, and he whispers, "I'm scratching your back."

Crowley laughs into his pillow, _giggles_ , really. "I noticed."

It takes Aziraphale half a beat to decide not to defend himself, to point out that he's doing this mostly for Crowley's benefit. Instead he lifts one hand to retrace its path, then the other, alternating in long, gentle lines, careful to avoid any scales. "First the right side," he whispers, "then the left side. Just long, gentle scratches, nice and soothing." Crowley snorts, and Aziraphale murmurs a quiet shush, more to quiet than correct.

He imagines that his carefully manicured nails are just long enough to provide a more distinct feeling than his fingertips alone. Perhaps he should have grown them out a bit longer, but it's too late for that now. Crowley had been rather insistent about no miracles during this, just the two of them touching the way the humans do. Because Aziraphale is touching just the pale, smooth parts of Crowley right now, he can drag his fingers _up_ as well, along the sensitive skin of his neck and teasing into his hairline. Crowley's ears seem to flush a little pink.

"I'm going to take your hair down," Aziraphale says softly, pulling the satin tie from Crowley's hair. He works his fingers into the tangles, runs his nails along Crowley's scalp. This close to his ears, there's hopefully a satisfying sound as well, the strands rubbing together, maybe, or his fingers against Crowley's skin. It's different to do this without water or soaps; the hair feels so light as it slides between his fingers. He pauses with his hands fully buried, then taps very, very gently along the top and sides of Crowley's head. He's not sure whether it makes a sound, but it's likely a novel sensation. Surely that's important, too, or else Crowley would just be lying here on his own with a pair of headphones.

Aziraphale frowns. ASMR, Crowley had said when he first mentioned it, was a substitute, before. He had declined to elaborate, but Aziraphale imagines that he meant that it was a substitute, albeit a poor one, for intimacy when he was touch-starved and affection-starved in the final years before the end of days. He pictures him curled in his sheets, clutching his mobile, watching a stranger's hands move in front of the camera. His heart aches for this version of his beloved, and even for the much more recent one who had been so nervous to ask for this, as if Aziraphale would deny him ever again anything Crowley was brave enough to request.

Crowley wriggles beneath him and demands, "More."

"Ah, very sorry," Aziraphale murmurs, "I was distracted for a moment."

"'salright." Crowley presses his head up against Aziraphale's hands, and Aziraphale gathers locks of hair in each palm and cups them over Crowley's ears like seashells, rubs behind each one with a thumb. Crowley's ears are so sensitive, to sound of course, but also to touch. Perhaps it's because he doesn't have them in his serpent form.

Aziraphale reaches for the bamboo brush resting beside the pillow. He has to lean forward a bit, and he presses his mouth to the shell of Crowley's ear. He should say something, but all that comes to mind is to declare his affections. "I love you so, my darling," he whispers.

He can actually see Crowley blush, the edge of his cheek and his ears and the back of his neck. He doesn't say anything, just draws the brush from Crowley's temple and back. "I'm taking such care of you, Crowley," he utters as he gently works the tangles from his tresses, "and I always will. Brushing each knot out of your beautiful curls." He listens to the sound of the bristles and hopes that Crowley is enjoying it, too.

Crowley shivers, and Aziraphale pulls the brush to the end of his hair yet again before asking, "Are you cold, dear?" Aziraphale has his cardigan to ward against the late afternoon chill coming off the water through the open window, but Crowley is rather bare.

"No, angel," Crowley says against the pillow, "just tingles, 'sgood, means it's working." He already sounds not quite here, slipping away in a manner Aziraphale has only heard him do during sex, when he's surrendering to sensation. Makes sense, he supposes. With long, slow strokes of the brush, he gathers Crowley's hair in his free hand. He considers tying it back up, out of the way, but he instead sweeps it to one side, spreading it against the pillowcase. He pulls the brush through it a few more times, the tips of the bristles dragging against the soft fleece. Crowley shivers again.

Aziraphale places the brush on the bed and sits up more fully, surveys the stretch of skin before him. Every inch begs for his touch, and it's hard to know where to begin. He doesn't want Crowley to lose focus, or perhaps to gain it, while he thinks, so he rubs his fingertips against his palms over Crowley's ears. He's long since lost his warrior's calluses, thankfully, but his hands are a bit rough from handling paper for hours each day. It's enough friction to make a quiet sound, and he slows until it reminds him of the waves lapping at the sand nearby.

He lowers his hands to rest on Crowley's shoulders, circles his thumbs around the bone. A small sound slips past Crowley's lips, a sleepy almost-whimper. Aziraphale resumes the careful scratching, the slow drag of his nails down the skin of Crowley's back. This time, he intentionally includes the patches of scales in his path. It's an interesting texture under his nails, and an interesting sound he can just barely hear from where he's sitting. He leans down to hear better, drapes his body over Crowley's and listens for a moment before kissing behind Crowley's ear. He finds a patch of scales there that he didn't notice earlier, and he breathes over them, warm air and a second press of his lips dragging over the rough skin. Crowley moans softly, and Aziraphale shifts to his other ear, moves his teeth gently along Crowley's earlobe. Crowley is trembling under him, but maybe this isn't in the spirit of ASMR, so Aziraphale sits back up and restricts himself to running his hands along Crowley's back. 

Crowley whimpers into the pillow and shifts his hips. After another minute or two of back scratches, he murmurs, "'m I shedding?" His neck is red and he squirms unhappily.

"No, no, not a speck," Aziraphale assures him. It's the truth, at least on his back. Poor Crowley has been surreptitiously scratching at his chest for the past few days, and Aziraphale wishes he would allow Aziraphale to draw him a warm bath, perhaps even soak with him, but he's still strangely self-conscious about the sheets of skin that slough off his scales. All Aziraphale can do for him for now is forego lowering the humidity in the cottage outside of the library and swap Crowley's satin sheets out for his own fleece ones, provide a bit more texture under the guise of wanting warmth. He presses a little more firmly with his nails, listens to the steady rhythm of them skipping over the scales.

Crowley sighs beneath him, and Aziraphale thinks, not for the first time and in spite of the scales under his hands, that Crowley is at least as much feline as serpent, long-limbed and secretly craving affection. He even arches his back under Aziraphale's touch. He is meant to be relaxing, but there's a thread of tension growing in him, and perhaps there has been for a while. Aziraphale is about to say something, to whisper a gentle reproach, a _settle_ or a _hush_ , when Crowley unwinds one arm from around his pillow and reaches behind him for Aziraphale.

Aziraphale grasps his searching hand easily, bends over Crowley to kiss his fingers and then press his hand back against the pillow.

Crowley whines, and although his face is obscured by the pillow and by his hair, Aziraphale can see his frustration in the deep red of his ears, the back of his neck, a sliver of exposed cheek. "'ziraphale," he whimpers, "I…"

"I have you, love," Aziraphale whispers close to his ear, a promise. "I'll take such perfect care of you, you need only lie still and allow me." Crowley trembles under him, a different kind of shiver this time, and Aziraphale nuzzles the back of his head, presses a kiss to the top of his spine, then leans his lips close to his other ear to ask, "May I?"

"Yes," Crowley hisses. He rubs his cheek against the pillow in a way that seems to want to be a nod, and Aziraphale shifts back, lower on Crowley's thighs.

From here, he can run his fingernails along Crowley's waist, down over his hips, the fine copper hair on the backs of his thighs. "My beautiful boy," he murmurs aloud, "I so enjoy every inch of you. It's been one revelation after another, you know. Your mane of fire in the Garden, your bare arms that afternoon in Rome, the first time I saw your waist in something more form-fitting than a robe, then resting my unworthy hands on your hips when you cajoled me into dancing with you at that ball." He praises each part with his touch as he praises it with his voice. He rests his hands on Crowley's thighs and says, "These long, lovely legs when you walked into that church in 1941 to save me from my own naïveté, although I scarcely deserved your concern."

"Don't say that," Crowley whispers, as if Aziraphale doesn't have millenia of withholding for which to atone. At least he has eternity in which to earn the forgiveness Crowley had so readily granted.

He slides his hands up, one continuing over Crowley's flank and the other dipping between his thighs. "And here," he whispers, "the most recent revelation from your body." He can feel the warmth of Crowley's core, presses the wet fabric between Crowley's swollen lips. Crowley hisses again, and Aziraphale can't quite stifle his mirth.

"I thought you said ASMR wasn't sexual," he teases, still brushing his fingers over Crowley's heat through the thin cotton.

Crowley's breathlessness takes a bit of the bite out of his words. "Everything's bloody sexual when an angel is grinding his cock against your arse."

"I was doing no such thing." Aziraphale slides his fingers under the waistband and pulls the panties down a bit, revealing the lovely curve of Crowley's ass. He can smell Crowley's scent now; the remembered taste makes his mouth water. But that's not an activity for today, he reminds himself, calling on no small amount of restraint. Instead, he slides the panties down. To get them off without a miracle or a tear, he has to climb off of his pretty perch. He slides his hands down Crowley's legs along with the panties, traces down his calves and along his heels.

The soles of Crowley's feet are dark with scales, and Aziraphale presses a kiss to each one as he finally frees Crowley from the black fabric. And now, now, it's just a beautiful, bare demon lying before him. Aziraphale nudges Crowley's feet apart as he moves forward again, dragging his nails up Crowley's legs, with perhaps a bit more force than before. As Aziraphale runs his fingertips along the sensitive skin of Crowley's inner thighs, his legs fall open obediently, and Aziraphale kneels between them.

"And this final, lovely revelation," Aziraphale repeats, tracing his thumbs over Crowley's labia, "your sweet center."

"Yours," Crowley corrects.

"No, love, yours." Aziraphale slowly presses a single finger inside, finds Crowley even more wet and welcoming than he expected. It's not the best time to fully unpack their respective issues about bodily autonomy, but it's a perfect time for a gentle reminder. " _This_ is ours," he whispers, moving his wrist in a slow rocking motion, "what we do together. But your body is yours, no matter what purpose you put it toward in a given moment."

Aziraphale trails his unoccupied hand up Crowley's spine. He caresses the scales across his shoulders; the patches are perhaps a bit fuller than they'd been when they started. Hopefully the sound so near to Crowley's ears is soothing, grounding, as Aziraphale slides a second finger alongside the first. He maintains his unhurried pace, and Crowley gasps against the pillow. He isn't _tight_ , of course, his body as receptive as always, but his flesh is swollen with arousal, clenching greedily, and Aziraphale wants him open enough to take him easily when the time comes.

Crowley whimpers, and Aziraphale bends forward, drapes his body over Crowley's, fingers still moving inside him even as he leans close to his ear to whisper, "How are you, my love?"

"Perfect," Crowley tries to say, though his parted lips don't quite meet to form the first sound.

"Would you like more?" Aziraphale asks. Crowley's attempt at a _yes_ is all sibilant, but the meaning is clear enough.

When Aziraphale rocks into him with a third finger, Crowley matches his rhythm and bears down against his hand exactly twice before he seems to give up on the effort and just relaxes back into the bed, loose-limbed and trusting. It makes Aziraphale's heart thud in his chest, makes his cock throb in turn. Yes, he could bring Crowley to his climax just like this, but Aziraphale is a greedy creature at times, and Crowley usually ends up asking for more when Aziraphale tries to be less selfish in his methods. He only thrusts his fingers into Crowley for a few more moments before slowly, slowly removing them, trailing his fingertips slick down Crowley's thigh and up the other to grasp his hips. He lifts him from the bed just enough to properly see his puffy lips and pretty little pearl glisten in the sunset.

He slips a pillow under Crowley's hips so he can unbutton his trousers. His fingers slip over the button, and he swears under his breath. He can hear Crowley's muffled laugh, but it turns to a moan when Aziraphale finally takes his length in hand and rubs the head along Crowley's wetness. It's unnecessary, perhaps, but it's gratifying to see Crowley's full-body shudder, to hear the whine of anticipation that builds in his throat.

Crowley's arms are wrapped around his pillow, likely in lieu of Aziraphale himself. It's probably only how relaxed he is right now, lying on his front, that's kept him from complaining that he wants to be on his back so he can twine his limbs around Aziraphale and pull him down for kisses. But Aziraphale can accommodate to an extent anyway, leaning forward and pressing his mouth to each of Crowley's shoulders in turn as he works his thick length into Crowley's willing body, so very warm and wet and welcoming.

Slow thrusts, so slow, pressing into that body that trembles beneath his own, and Aziraphale remembers to whisper to Crowley, but what he's narrating now, very nearly nonsense, is how delicious Crowley feels, how honored Aziraphale is to make love to him, how very much Aziraphale adores him. He teases fingers along Crowley's hip bones, slides his hands under Crowley, between the pillow and his skin, down his scaly stomach and auburn curls to the v of his thighs, traces feather-light touches over his swollen flesh. Crowley's orgasm is almost understated, a moan into the pillow as his walls clench tight around Aziraphale and a trickle of hot dew escapes where they're joined together, and Aziraphale decides not to prolong his own pleasure, opting instead for just a few more lazy thrusts before he spills inside his lovely demon, who's still shivering and sensitive beneath him.

He rests, breathing heavily, against the length of Crowley's back, until Crowley mumbles, "Thanks for the tingles, angel." Aziraphale startles, then laughs, still somewhat breathless.

"I suppose I did get rather distracted," he admits, placing a last kiss to Crowley's back before sitting up on his knees, his softening erection slipping from Crowley's body. Crowley sighs at the loss, as he always does, and burrows against the pillow. Aziraphale uses a handkerchief from his pocket to clean himself as well as he can before tucking himself away and fastening his fly. He'd prefer a proper bath, but Crowley generally requires a soft touch and quite a lot of attention afterward, and Aziraphale wants to stay close. "I'm sorry," he adds.

"Hmm?" Crowley glances over his shoulder and says, "Oh, for--? No, don't be, this was shivery and relaxing in its own right."

"Was it?"

"Utterly decadent and delightful," Crowley confirms. "Hold me?"

"Of course," Aziraphale says immediately. He loves that Crowley is getting better at asking for what he wants, and he's quick to reward him. "Would you like for me to clean you at all first?"

Crowley tenses just the tiniest bit. "No miracles tonight."

"I remember." Aziraphale glances to the side and finds the discarded panties where they nearly blend in amongst the bedding. He wipes away the worst of the mess from between Crowley's thighs and drops the garment along with the soiled handkerchief to the floor before lifting Crowley's hips a final time to slide the pillow out from beneath them and lower him to the bed.

Aziraphale considers a moment, then settles himself, mostly reclining, against the pile of pillows along the headboard. He situates himself and then Crowley, leaving him draped boneless between Aziraphale's thighs and over his chest, a blanket pulled partway over him but his back still bare save for his long curls. Aziraphale combs his fingers through them and rubs Crowley's scalp with long, firm caresses.

Crowley tilts his chin up and looks Aziraphale properly in the eyes for the first time in hours. "How many of those videos have you watched?" he asks.

"A few," Aziraphale whispers.

"That's what you've been doing on your phone while I slept." Not really a question. And it had been, of course, all the times Crowley caught him recently, cracking one eye open in the dim light from the screen and whining softly because Aziraphale wasn't touching him as he slept. Perhaps, in retrospect, Aziraphale shouldn't have needed the research to know exactly the type of soft, deliberate touches Crowley might crave.

Aziraphale simply answers, "Yes," gently closing Crowley's eyes and encouraging him to nestle back against his chest. He can reach him so easily this way, and he brushes his nails along either side of Crowley's spine until he gives one final, squirming shiver and settles into sleep.


End file.
